


Desideratum

by Heatherbel



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV), star war
Genre: Din Djarin Needs a Hug, Din Djarin deserves all the love, F/M, Feelings, Kissing, No use of y/n, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Shameless Smut, This Is The Way, Vaginal Sex, but only in the dark, soft smut, soft! Din, the helmet comes off
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:46:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27424435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heatherbel/pseuds/Heatherbel
Summary: “By cover of darkness, he comes to you, stripped of everything but need. "This is the way," he says, and without the static of his helmet you can hear the smile in his voice.”A very soft, smutty Din Djarin x reader fic.
Relationships: Baby Yoda (The Mandalorian TV) & Din Djarin & Reader, Din Djarin & Reader, Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/You, The Mandalorian/Reader, The Mandalorian/You
Comments: 5
Kudos: 259





	Desideratum

**Author's Note:**

> An enormous thanks as always to jura-moon and yespolkadotkitty for their cheerleading and beta skills. I don’t know what I’d do without you guys!

Desideratum: An essential longing or desire. 

From the Latin sidus (heavenly body) - Desire: To wish upon the stars. 

The Razor Crest was never built for comfort; its interior is the definition of utility, all sharp metal angles and hard unwelcoming surfaces. Hell, sometimes you weren't even sure it had been intended for habitation, only for short hops from war zone to war zone. It was a gunship after all, not for living in, the way you do now. And yet somehow it is your home, has become so. You've moulded your softness to accommodate its sharp edges, just as with its owner. 

He's a hard man in so many ways, the Mandalorian -  _ your  _ Mandalorian - you correct yourself. He hasn't been 'the', to you for a long time now. You found yourself here by chance, never asked for this, never wanted it, and yet… if you'd known then what you know now…

It was the child that stole your heart first, all curious eyes, big ears and small grabby claws. He'd clung to you, and you’d known instantly that you'd been chosen. You were his, would be forever, and that was all there was to it. It was so simple, your love for him. 

His father is more complicated. 

Outwardly, he's cold and hard, inscrutable. Gruff to a fault, but you know better now. 

He'd frightened you at first. He was so dangerous, bristling with armaments, and so quick to temper, not with the child, never with the child but with others, occasionally even you. 

You had insinuated yourself into his life in increments, easing under chinks in his armour so slowly that he barely noticed at first. You broke down walls that he’d spent a lifetime building with no weapon greater than a soft smile and your gentle touch. Before long he could no longer imagine his world without you in it. It took many months for you to discover that you'd taken his heart as he'd taken yours. 

The life of a bounty hunter is cold and harsh, the galaxy cruel, it is no place for tender hearts, and you thank the force every day that when he leaves you, his soft heart is hidden, protected by layers of duraweave and Beskar. You wish you could protect him always; you would wrap your body around him and accept any injury if it would keep him from harm. 

Yet you've never known anyone braver, or more foolhardy. He insists all his risks are well judged, but you are never really sure if that's a truth or a gentle lie he whispers to help you sleep at night. 

The armour protects him in his work, it is a symbol of his religion, but for so long it served another purpose: hiding the broken, jagged parts of him from the eyes of the galaxy. Concealing loss and longing; the pain of a small boy cast adrift in an infinite universe. It took him many years to find his anchors, first his creed, then the child, now you. You tether him with your heart, grounding him even in the deepest reaches of space. You’ve smoothed his rough edges but accepted they can’t be removed, they’re too much a part of him now and you love him just the same. 

His creed is his salvation and yet, its weight is his burden. It lays heavy on his broad shoulders, and keeps you apart in ways that make your heart ache. It is a weighty thing to love a Mandalorian you have found; fraught with duty and difficulty and yet nothing has ever felt easier. 

By cover of darkness, he comes to you, stripped of everything but need. "This is the way," he says, and without the static of his helmet you can hear the smile in his voice. 

Your love is a deep shaded thing, heavy with nuance, bittersweet with limitation. Lips you have never seen, and never will see, caress you in the pitch black of the ship's hull, lighting a spark in your heart with each touch. 

He cleaves to you, and tells you that you are his home, his warm, his special place. Everything good and kind and soft that he has found. For all his armour you hold his heart in your hands as surely as you hold the child. 

Things are different in the dark, your world narrowed to words and breath and sensation. Here, hands that deal death so willingly in the daylight become soft, sometimes unsure; the dichotomy of this man leaves you breathless. Sometimes he takes from you and it is rough and bruising, all need and want and hunger, but you give willingly, will always give yourself to him willingly; would gladly give him every piece of you until there's nothing left if it would replenish whatever void he's trying to fill. 

He wants you now, needs you, you can feel the heavy weight of his desire pressing hard into your thigh. His stubble rasps against your skin as he licks and bites at your throat, gun calloused fingers sliding over your flesh, grasping, desperate and you rut back into him, wanting more. Your need for him now is a heated thing, a base animal hunger that coils deep inside. You lost count long ago of how many times you've been together like this, but even now you can never get enough of this man, his hands, his mouth, his cock. The room may be blacker than a spice mine at midnight but no one has ever lit stars behind your eyelids the way he can. 

He approaches sex much the same way he attacks his work. He is relentless, unyielding and singularly focused at achieving the task at hand: there is much to be said for this, and he never leaves you unsatisfied. 

You turn to him and reach for his face, instinct drawing you to the most forbidden part of him that he can only give you like this. Your fingers re-learn the angle of his jaw, the deep furrow in his brow, the curve of nose and plush of lips that kiss and bite at your fingertips; drawing them into his mouth, all curling tongue and drag of teeth. It feels more intimate than sex itself, these hard-won moments, and when he presses his cheek into your palm like a loth-cat seeking comfort, a soft purr of contentment in his throat, your heart swells with affection. He deserves this you think, this tenderness that he allows only you to give. It is the privilege of your life to be the choice of a man like him. 

He takes joy in your soft, supple form, so unlike the hard planes of his own, your skin honey sweet on his lips as he kisses across your breasts and down to the apex of your thighs. 

For all he enjoys your softness he likes this more, taste and scent are so often denied to him, his world confined and claustrophobic inside his visor, and he relishes running his lips between your thighs, savouring silken skin soaked with arousal. He runs his nose through your folds, and you gasp as he rubs your clit with the tip as he breathes you in. He pauses for a moment and you sigh as the warmth of his exhale teases you, and you ache for him, longing for his touch, hips rising off the bunk begging for more. He isn't one for games, and he knows exactly what you need as he lowers his lips to your cunt, licking into you, fucking you with his tongue. Nuzzling his face into your skin as you grind on his nose. And it is good,  _ so good, _ but it’s not enough. He knows this, has learned your gasps and sighs with the same single-minded zeal he used to learn the way of The Mandalore, and he knows that you need more. 

He licks up, wide and wet stroking again and again, moaning at the taste of you on his tongue. You feel embers sparking deep down inside and you grip his hair, soft curls pulled tight between your fingertips as he works to build the fire within you. His warm lips wrap around your clit as his long thick fingers slip inside and you clench down hard on the fullness, delighting in the silky drag of his digits as he curls and presses just the way you like. His tongue swirls, and his fingers find the perfect place that makes you keen and beg him not to stop. It feels like he's writing with the tip of his tongue, and for a moment you wonder, is it your name? His own? The thought of him pressing his secrets into your skin overwhelms your heart, and the sparks catch, blazing into an inferno and it's all heat and light as you are swept away. 

Your orgasm ebbs but he doesn't stop and you know he will keep going until you have come again, but you feel like you are floating and need the weight and heft of him to hold you down. You grip his shoulder, feeling strong muscles play beneath his skin and you tug up, up and he follows, kissing all the way. He presses his lips to yours and it's sweet, so sweet, and soft, so soft, and you love him with your mouth and lips as you cradle him with your thighs. 

He braces himself over you and you roll your hips, feel him achingly hot and hard and  _ so close _ to where he belongs. He holds back, stroking your cheek, and you turn your face to mouth across his palm, trailing sweet kisses across his fingertips. He traces your lips with the pad of his thumb and you lick it into your mouth; he tastes of tibanna and the fresh scent of the earth after rain. He tastes like a home you can never return to and it breaks and mends you with sweet pain. You swirl your tongue and your chest pounds when you hear him whimper in return, heart high on lust and you feel giddy with power that you alone can make this warrior fall apart at the seams. He grips your chin and adds another finger to your mouth and you gently bite and suck and feel his composure splinter as he growls. You rock up again, goading him now, willing him to take what he needs, to take you, claim you as his own.

He grips your thighs and pulls them up and back, hitching your knees over his shoulders and you moan as you feel the large blunt tip of him catch between your thighs. He strokes the head through your slick and moans as he feels your heat, how ready you are for him. 

Then he pushes in deep, in one smooth stroke and you feel complete, the glorious fill and stretch of him knocking all breath from you as he begins to move. His thrusts are slow and hard, all push and pull and grind. The press of his body against your own is dizzying, heat and skin, and you are pinned, entirely at his mercy and you wouldn't have it any other way. 

He kisses you, with a stroke of tongue and nip of teeth, prising your hand from its grip on the blankets underneath. Lacing your fingers together, he presses them into the bunk as he pounds into you ruthlessly, lovingly, giving you all that you desire.

He's not one for dirty talk, a man whose words are few and far between, but for you and only you, he's loud, and in-between grunts and groans he tells you in a ruined voice that you're the sweetest girl he's ever known, this is heaven, this is home and it's the sexiest thing you've ever heard. 

It's all consuming this moment with him, the sweet slide of him inside, the smack of skin, the spot he's hitting inside you. He breathes kisses onto your lips and your heart aches with how precious he is and you never want the moment to end. 

He slides a hand behind your neck and clutches you close as he fucks in deep, you cry out, your world splintering into waves of pleasure. 

His hips stutter as you squeeze him tight and then he's grunting and panting into your neck as he comes, pulsing inside you as you whisper that you love him, and you've got him, and he's home to you, too. 

He eases your legs down and you wrap them round his waist keeping him in place, as he sinks into your soft embrace. 

"Din," he says, and you feel more than hear the word, and you turn to him confused. 

"Din?" you ask. 

"Say it again," he says. So you do.

And then you realise the gift he's given you. You've loved him unconditionally, what conditions could you place on this stoic man that he hasn't already placed on himself? But this, oh this… his name; to plead, to cry, to love - that's something else.


End file.
